Enter Tamara Adams.
Colin knew that Phoebe Morgan didn’t much care for Tamara but then again, his mother didn’t have to sleep with her.
Colin liked sleeping with Tamara even if she wasn’t the best he’d had. What she lacked in imagination or even sometimes passion, she made up for in sheer will which worked very well to Colin’s benefit.
Shaking off these thoughts, he moved through the house to his study, uncovered the sandwiches Mrs. Manning left for him on his desk and smiled a small smile to himself.
His housekeeper was perfect. She was industrious, thorough and mostly unseen.
He settled behind his desk and made several business calls while he ate then made several more after he finished. Finally, late at night, he phoned Tamara, finalising plans with her to spend the rest of the week and weekend at Lacybourne.
“I can’t wait to see you, darling,” she purred and he had to control his annoyance at the endearment that didn’t even begin to sound genuine. He disliked it when she slipped into the usual feminine tactics and made them obvious. She was far more talented than that. “Are you in bed?” she continued suggestively.
“No,” he replied tersely and she immediately read his tone, not a stupid girl (which was one of her attractions) and quickly rang off.
While preparing for bed, he was unable to assuage his unease and wondered if he should scrape off Tamara and find someone else. Although who that would be, he did not know. After thirty-six years, he had long since given up on the idea that Beatrice Godwin’s reincarnated soul would enter his life, smiling magnificently at him and melting his modern day warrior’s heart.
Tamara knew she was entering the straightaway, heading for the chequered flag and the more she seemed sure of her position, the more irritating she became.
Colin lay in bed, crossed his hands behind his head and listened to the rain.
He did not relish the idea of finding a replacement for Tamara, though it didn’t really matter who it was. Although it did matter how she looked. Colin had a definite type and Tamara was that type.
Tamara had jet black hair, ice blue eyes and never allowed the sun to touch her alabaster skin. She was petite and watched her diet like a hawk so that she would not put an ounce of extra flesh on her slim body. She dressed impeccably and had her own trust fund. Her parents were friends with his parents and were also, most assuredly, upper, upper middle class.
She was, for all intents and purposes, perfect or at least as perfect as a woman could get in Colin’s dire estimation.
The rain still falling, his tired thoughts turned from Tamara to Beatrice Godwin.
He had no way of knowing if Beatrice Godwin was petite, except she was suddenly there, right beside him and she was not petite. She was long limbed and her body was lush with curves.
And there she was, laying in bed with him, completely naked, her skin glowing, her eyes heated with passion.
His mouth was on her, his hands were everywhere, she felt so damn good, she tasted so good, he couldn’t get enough of her. He felt the blood singing through his veins, burning through him with lust and… something else.
Colin was a man of many passions and refined tastes. Only the best suited him and he only accepted the best. He knew passion and desire; he liked sex, enjoyed it immensely but it was always just that, sex, an experience, a release. The act of intercourse was another skill to acquire, hone and use with ruthless determination to meet his own ends.
But he’d never felt a desire so strong it was a need before, desire that was so insistent it was nearly violent.
But he felt that with Beatrice.
Colin lifted his mouth from her nipple and looked at her face. He was surprised to see her lustrous dark locks had turned gold. Her hazel eyes were warm, melting to a liquid brown and when she opened her mouth and whispered, “Colin,” her voice was husky with her own need.
He had to have her, immediately, he could not, would not, wait a moment longer. He pulled himself over her, opened her legs and her hands glided into his hair.
He opened his mouth to say her name but somehow “Beatrice” wasn’t right.
But he had no time to sort his confusion because he was ripped viciously from her arms as they were both hauled out of the bed.
At the side of the bed, strong hands holding him back as he struggled, he watched as the faceless, dark entities that kept him hostage tore her out of the bed the other way.
He roared his fury, brutal feelings he didn’t quite understand surging through him as he watched her battle across the room. Colin came to the instant realisation that she was life to him, she was breath. The world, the entire world, his whole being, heart and soul, was wrapped up in her.
He struggled fiercely but in vain. He watched, his gut wrenching in despair, as the sharp, shining blade swiftly, without delay, slid across her throat causing hideous blood to splatter everywhere from the gaping wound at her neck.
He woke, somehow, even though it couldn’t be possible, to a high-pitched, blood-chilling, woman’s scream.
Chapter Two